Coming Back to Haunt

Growing up my Mom always told me I would make a great teacher because I am so patient with little kids. (WHAT?!) I think this is because I coached volleyball, gave the neighborhood(loose interpretation) kids rides on my pony, and tutored a bit in my spare time. Unfortunately, those of you who REALLY know me (Sorry, Mom, wishful thinking) know that I can't stand children - especially those of people who clearly can't handle them - and only partook in the above activities because I like money and having people in the neighborhood like me. In fact, when a random minivan-load of kids would stop in the driveway with hopes of a ride on Sugar Babe (my pony, may she rest in peace), I often considered whether I would rather lead those precious little idiots around in the hot sun for an hour while they kicked and yelled at poor Shugie or gnaw off my own arm. It was really a toss-up.

This seems like a horrible confession, I realize, but it is needed to fully understand my mindset in the following tale.

It all began this summer when the Dwyer clan met for our yearly reunion in the Samford, CT/New York City area. I spent most of the time at my uncle's house, drink in hand, by the pool, looking out over the ocean as anyone would expect from me. One day, however, I ventured into the City with my uncle, aunt, other uncle, mom, dad, brother, and little cousin to go to the Natural History Museum. Even though the excursion was obviously more geared towards the interests of my ten-year-old cousin, David, it is common knowledge that I love all woodland creatures, so a trip to a gallery of long-dead safari furriness was well worth the 50 min drive into the city.

What I failed to consider, however, was that even I could not stare at wonders such as of a stuffed baby baboon or a delicately placed weasel among the savannah animals for more than 20 minutes or so. This left the whole rest of the day to wander around with the posse and little David.

Let me say before I continue, that I love my cousin. He is absolutely a boy genius and is one of the coolest little kids I know, but as I spend 0% of my life with people his age, I was absolutely ill-equipped for the excitement and question-bombardment that ensued that day.

I am ashamed to say that after a short time of seriously fielding all of his inquiries regarding the various forms of life present in each an every room of the African Animals exhibit, then the Lizards and Snakes displays, then the Dinosaurs, and so on an so on, I could no longer invest any more effort in the field trip. By the time we reached the Under the Sea exhibits, I was answering each "What is that?" or "But why?" with whatever bullshit my little heart desired. It was really quite fun. He was giggling and I was spewing off nonsense for the rest of our visit to the museum.

I had completely forgotten about this experience until two weeks ago.

I was again up in Stamford, CT visiting my uncle, and the smaller version of the Dwyer clan present that weekend was walking into the Kona Grill for a nice dinner. I thought my cousin was leading the way to the table when I realized that he had completely lost the waitress he was following and was almost stopped, wonderstruck, in front of a large aquarium. With some prodding from my aunt, he made it to the table but was still staring at the swimming wildlife when we began to seat ourselves. Finally, he looks at me and the rest of the family, points at the aquarium and says, "Hey look! Its a Giant Sea Squirrel!!"

Busted.

I realized by the look of excitement coming from David's face and the look of confusion coming from my uncle's face that my shenanigans in the museum were coming back to haunt me. Either I am the only marine biologist in the world that knows the true identity of a nurse shark, or I'm a horrible big cousin. Either way, I really wonder how many people David has since educated about Giant Sea Squirrels or the Air Beaver in the months since.

My bad.





Giant Sea Squirrel

Worthless.

Guinness has spent almost every minute of freedom today sitting in the corner of my room facing the wall. I say almost every minutes, because he did devote a few moments to knocking over my Diet Dr. Pepper and gnawing on my sandwich while I went to the kitchen to get a towel to clean up the spilled Diet Dr. Pepper, but that is pretty much par for the course. Anyway, the point is, he has finally dedicated himself to a normal cat activity. He is guarding my apartment from mice. Unfortunately for him, the mouse he is currently hunting is stuck in the wall. It has been there since at least 4 a.m. this morning when I unhappily awoke to the all-too-familiar desperate scratching sound coming from the corner of my bedroom closest too my face when I sleep. This is the second time this happy event has occurred in the last month.

Here are two things I have learned from the first Mouse-in-the-Wall experience. First, the mouse will never escape. No matter how much the little guy squirms, gnaws, and scratches at the insides of the exterior wall, it will not materialize in my room. Guinness is wasting his time. Not that he has ever partaken in an activity that I wouldn't characterize as a waste-of-time, but I am really concerned about his sanity here. Second, the mouse will die in two or three days. Usually i would be sad for the little whippersnapper, but it is SO ANNOYING. I can no longer sleep in my bedroom and have to spend all my time on the futon in the living room until the sucker dies.

Anyway, personal complaints aside, I must explain why this post is entitled "Worthless". This is the third mouse visit to my apartment. Even Mouse-in-the-Wall, Part I wasn't the first appearance. About five months ago, I returned from my internship in Charlotte to a small household of three mice living under my stove. Because I didn't have much food in the house immediately upon my return, I didn't even notice their presence until a few days into my stay at my apartment. The more disturbing part is that Guinness didn't notice either. His nose is six inches above the level of their happy little home and he didn't notice a thing. He spends at least an hour laying in the kitchen every day and STILL nothing. So of course, when I did realize that bread didn't eat itself I took care of the problem myself.

A few days after identifying the problem, exterminators arrived and placed trays of sticky material under the stove to catch any mouse stragglers, and pushed said trays all the way back towards the kitchen wall in the least accessible areas. And THIS is when my useless ball of black puff decided to involve himself. I entered my kitchen one afternoon after hearing a weird clunking noise to find Guinn hobbling around the stove area stuck to the sticky mouse-trapping device, apparently pleased with his capture...of himself.

What a waste of cat life! He doesn't do a thing when actual mice are loose in my kitchen but he traps himself by aggressively hunting plastic trays. Now, he has devoted his entire day to taking Mouse-in-the-Wall, Part II into his own hands. Worthless.

The World According to...Who Knows

So today in Advanced Auditing we discussed inventory management and the audit procedures undertaken to test the assertions and accounts pertaining to inventory. Of course, most of the examples referred to observing and testing the inventory of "widgets." Samples of purple widgets, a selection of blue widgets, various obsolete yellow widgets. It was all pretty mundane.

After a little while though, maybe because I happened to be staring at that part of projector screen for too long or just because accounting classes take me to such a special place of insanity, I started contemplating the widget and its completely undeserved significance in my life.

Since the dawn of time, or day one of Econ 101(pretty much the same), all I have heard about is this magical little thing called a "widget." They are omnipotent. A widget is a commodity, a luxury item, an inferior good; They are traded in perfectly competitive markets, controlled by monopolies and oligopolies, are price elastic and inelastic. They are produced utilizing economies of scale, traded in every currency, hedged using all types of derivative instruments. Every nation, tribe, village, merchant, and vendor has at one time had a comparative advantage in producing, growing, manufacturing, and selling widgets. Apparently widgets are also stored in warehouses, arranged in their various colors and sizes, and must be audited by CPAs. To someone who didn't understand the strictly anecdotal nature of the classic widget example, it would seem that the little guy was the leading export and import of every country in the world.

I understand story problems and examples must exist for teaching purposes but WHY THE WIDGET?!? Is it too much to ask for textbook authors to replace "widget" with "car" or "apple"? For all we have learned about them, it would seem that a shock in widget prices would decimate the global economy. Unfortunately no one really knows WHAT a widget even IS.

There really is only one way to solve the great mystery of the widget: Google Image Search.

A Widget:



Or maybe this?



How about...




This?




OR...





So...as usual, Google Image searches provide an incredible amount of clarity. Apparently a Widget is either a one-inch white ball, a stop watch, a strange purple man, AFRICA?, or THE SUN?!?!?! Gee thanks, internet world. Good to know that we can all time our widget-throwing skills with a widget while hunting safari widgets on the continent of widget by the ultraviolet light of the great widget. Stellar.

SHARK WEEK

It's Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

SHARKS.

Ramblings

It is has bee a while since I have touched this blog, mainly because my CPA exam studying is over and I have actually regained some measure of fun in my life. Thus, procrastination in the form of venting has subsided. However, I wouldn't want both of my readers to think I forgot about them, so here are a few insights into the ridiculous life of Alison Dwyer to share with the internet world.

Let the countdown begin!


FIVE Random Thoughts:

- Why does the word "LISP" have an "S" in it? That is just cruel. By the time anyone with a lisp is done saying the word, we already know you have a lisp. Whoever came up with this term needs to go back to the drawing board, or Gary, Indiana.

- I always wonder what people are thinking when I see a purple or pink house. It should be a universal rule that you never paint your house your favorite color. Houses should be earthy tones like tan, sandstone, or brown. And if your favorite color is brown, then you need to reevaluate your tastes and preferences, and possibly your life.

- The saying that situations are only as awkward as you make them to be is crap. Some things are just awkward.

- For some reason salad bars always include some sort of pudding. Pudding is not salad, nor is anywhere near acceptable as the only dessert option.

- I've never understood someone waiting for six rings and then leaving messages just to say they called. 2010. Caller id. Mom.



FOUR Random Talents I Possess that Will NEVER Actually Help Me Achieve Success in the Real World:

- I can find a four leaf clover at will pretty much whenever I want. I have even found multiple five, six, seven, and eight leaf clovers in my day. I used to ride my pony around as a child, look down, hop off, pick the shamrock I found and continue on my way. I even found two four-leaf clovers today. This isn't normal, right?

- I can write a rhyming poem about anything in less than a minute. I once performed my "Ode to a Gopher" at a slam poetry performance in High School. I had written it earlier that day as joke for my friend. Please see Accounting Poems below...written in about five. This talent is so not useful. Well, unless I want to be a rapper. So...so not useful.

- I can solve Wheel of Fortune puzzles ridiculously quickly. I even solved one once without any letters on the board. There were witnesses.

- I can do the splits. But only to the left. Then again, anyone who attended a college party with me already knows this. I apologize to those people.


Three Phrases I LOVE:

- "Just Saying.": This serves as a qualifier for anything and justifies your inclusion of anything into a conversation. I wish Obama wasn't president, just saying.

- "Let's think about what’s really important here…": This is always followed by some really egocentrical concept that has neither anything to do with what your conversation counterpart was talking about nor any significance in their life whatsoever. It is usually either my birthday or Guinness's happiness. And let's be honest...that is really what is important here.

- "I get that a lot.": After any compliment. I'm sure this never gets old.


TWO Phrases I Would Rather Not Hear Again:

- "I'm Not Gonna Lie.": Oh, Goody! I thought you were going to lie. Thank god you are not.

- "But, If you think about it...": A preceding qualifier that's as pointless as it is condescending. Dude, I have a brain. I DID think about it. I just don't agree with you.


ONE Important Tool Everyone Should be Aware of:

- THE REJECTION HOTLINE: Find your state’s given number. Memorize it - Nothing hints that the number you are giving a creeper is not yours like looking it up on your own phone. Oh, and pray they don’t call you on the spot hoping to trade digits.

The website is as a follows: http://www.humorhotlines.com/hh-numbers.asp

And, here is a sample of the epic letdown: "The person who gave you this number did not want you to have their real number. Maybe you suffer from bad breath, body odor or even both. Maybe you just give off that creepy, overbearing, psycho-stalker vibe. Maybe the idea of going out with you just seems as appealing as playing leapfrog with unicorns."

Keep in mind, readers, this is meant for those creepers who either have a stellar sense of humor or just really deserve it. You know who you are.

Why Meow Mix Exists and Cats are Inferior to Humans

Disclaimer: I realize by posting this blog entry I am adding to the concerns many of my friends and acquaintances already hold regarding my ridiculous love for my cat and the pathetic little household we share here in Winston-Salem, but this story is worth sharing.

As a background, I grew up in a house where my pets were treated exactly as they should have been: as animals - and far below humans in the caste system. My dog never got table scraps; in fact, with one look from my mom, she never even had the nerve to get close enough to the table to figure out what human food even smelled like. Feeding my horse a hot dog bun was pretty much like teetering on the brink of my getting a tramp stamp in my mom's eyes.

So, because of my clearly over-structured childhood, it never occurred to me that pets could be regarded any differently until one day I was pulling slices of wheat bread from a bag to make a sandwich when I looked down to see those all-too-familiar yellow eyes staring up at me. I'm not sure whether I cracked under the pressure of his insane baby panther cuteness or because I thought one taste of the cardboard-like 45 calorie whole wheat would solve the begging problem forever, but I shared. Whatever my reasoning, that one small crumb of bread changed my and Guinness's lives forever:

I now no longer make any food alone. In fact, I can't even enter my kitchen alone anymore. If I open my dishwasher, he climbs in. Another fun fact: Guinness fits on the bottom shelf of my fridge. He climbs pantry shelves, scales the refrigerator; all while purring madly in the shear bliss created by the possibility that a crumb may materialize.

After a few weeks of this, I realized that by being Guinness's sole source of human food, I was infinitely powerful. So I decided to use my leverage to make make Guinness do tricks. Obviously, striving for awesomeness runs in our family, so why wouldn't my cat want to be better than all of his feline counterparts and cross over into the realm of trick-performing usually inhabited by dogs only. Thus, I set out to use breadcrumbs to teach Guinn to sit. Five minutes and a few Pavlov conditioning techniques later, Guinness knew the word "sit" and to do so even in silence if I pointed at his butt. What a genius.

This new useful application of his psychotic love of little morsels of my meals must have blinded me from my previous annoyance at his constant hyperactive presence in my kitchen and the always-present risk of death by tripping over his black furry body with its impeccable ability to blend into my black kitchen rug, because today his little yellow eyes struck again. While cutting up a chicken breast on the coffee table in front of my TV, I looked down to see a little black paw on the glass surface of the table and his cute wishful expression moving rapidly from my face to the chicken and back again. I caved. What harm could a one centimeter by 3 millimeter piece of chicken really cause, anyway?

OH, WOW.

He loved it. Understatement. He was absolutely cracked out by the chicken. He began purring madly and literally hopping around the coffee table. I spent most of my meal holding him back with one arm as he meowed and pawed and purred and frolicked. Then I remembered I hadn't tested his sitting skills recently. A few chicken pieces and successful sits later, he was going nuts. I had to move to the corner of the kitchen and eat the rest of my meal cowering in the corner while he continued his happy hopping and purring.

I thought the craziness would never end until, upon realizing I could no longer hear his scampering or the sound of his motor-like purr, I looked over and saw the thanksgiving turkey effect had set in. Guinn was completely passed out; sound asleep with his face covered by a DVD case he had knocked down onto himself.

WHAT??? This cat is SO not normal. Anyone want to put money on him learning to roll-over for a potato chip?



Oh yea, he has a Biker Jacket. Straight Baller.

blah blah blah...taxes....general ledger...blah...tort feasor...blah...wait, TORT FEASOR?!?!

I am currently studying to become an accountant. By the end of 2010 I will have a Master's in Science in Accountancy. I start a job at an accounting firm in Charlotte in January where I hope to keep my post for at least a few years. Unfortunately, I hate accounting.

As you can imagine, such hatred makes accounting school slightly unexciting. Luckily, every so often a cool new term pops up in the curriculum that sends me into imaginative spirals of short-lived amusement. It's too bad that none of the words actually mean what they sound like. Below I have provided two such examples, their disappointing definitions, and, more importantly, what I think they should mean.

TORT FEASOR

Actually Means: Someone who commits a civil wrong (Thanks, Business Law).

What It Sounds Like It Should Mean: Someone who uses complicated geometric logistics to fit a very large fruit-filled pastry through a very small doorway.

When Google Image Searched:







Hmm...so, in case we needed more clarity on what a tort feasor really is, our friends at the Google image search have narrowed it down to: someone's grandparents at a war re-enactment site, a pregnancy test, or a doggy behind a fence. That really clears it up! Thanks, Google!


TIPPY PASSER:

Actually Means: A stupid mnemonic* device used by the Becker CPA Exam prep lecturers to help remember the general, fieldwork, and reporting standards for attestation services (the details of which would put anyone to sleep, except hopefully me during the CPA exam section I am taking two days from now).

What It Sounds Like It Should Mean: 1. A quarterback sitting Indian-style on one of those flying-saucer sleds; 2. One whom communicates from one party to the next really small and insignificant pieces of advice; 3. A teenager walking stealthily on their toes past their sleeping father in a recliner circa 2 a.m. on a school night.

When Google Image Searched:








WHAT?!?!?!

And here we all thought nothing about accounting was funny...



*Fun fact: I Googled "mnemonic device" because I couldn't REMEMBER how to spell it. A mnemonic device is designed to make memory of large lists or ordered items simpler, yet the word itself is both overly complex and impossible to recreate from memory. WHY!?!?

A Tale of Two Smoke Alarm Battery Replacement Procedures

My smoke alarm ran out of battery power today. This is the second time this minor, yet exceptionally annoying, event has occurred since I lived in my own apartment. The first time the ridiculously loud beep in annoyingly-spaced intervals (you know, just often enough not to be ignored and but with just enough time between killer beeps for you to think the problem cured itself) presented itself was around 11:30 PM one weekend night in April's and my apartment in Charlotte. While all smoke alarm battery replacement situations begin in the same way, with the same "What is that? The dying pterodactyl noise? Oh crap, the smoke detector! Make it stop!" or something like that, the events that transpired in an attempt to resolve the situation could not have been more different.

Smoke Detector Battery Replacement Adventure of May 2010:

I'm sitting in my apartment in Winston-Salem watching Grey's Anatomy with Guinness (well, I was watching, Guinn was licking his butt) when the annoyance started. I immediately got up, moved a chair under the beeping device, unscrewed it from the ceiling and removed the battery. I took note of the voltage and quickly jumped in my car and drove to my local Food Lion to get the necessary replacement. Upon returning, I placed the 9V into its place and went back to watching Grey's. The whole process took eleven minutes. The end.

And now for the tale of what happened the first time...

Smoke Detector Battery Replacement Adventure of February 2010:

It it the night of the epic Post Uptown Around the World Party thrown by myself and six of my friends incorporating four apartments, four countries, lots of shenanigans, and the losses of many guests' dignities. I am standing in my apartment, Mexico, with some stragglers who did not get their fill of Tecate and Tequila. I'm wearing a cocktail dress, a sombrero and aviators. Its nighttime. I'm indoors. I channeling Garth Brooks on the Piña Colada front and jigging to "Vamos a la Playa" because "a mi me gusta baila" when that all-too-familiar beep becomes audible over the techno-Mexicano music. I freak. IT IS SO ANNOYING! I immediately grab a wobbly stool stolen from my basement in Michigan and also the 1970's and enlist the nearest boy to help me get that thing down. I rip it from the ceiling, tear its battery heart out, and happily return to my personal fiesta.



Approximately thirty seconds later, the impossible happens. It beeps. It FREAKING BEEPS. It has no battery and is no longer attached to the ceiling, so how on EARTH is it still alive? Freak out part two ensues. Without thinking, I grab it from the counter and throw it out on to the balcony. Problem solved; back to the party. Later, April comes in and informs me that the device is no longer beeping and can re-enter our apartment. I am skeptical but agree to let it come inside so long as it is buried somewhere where any future noises will not be heard.

Fast forward to the the next day. April and I are watching episode six for the day of the O.C. when I glance at the ceiling. OH YEA!! I had forgotten about the smoke alarm adventure of the night before. Maybe because it just hadn't seemed that important at the time, or maybe because the events of Mexico were followed by even more ridiculousness in Russia, Ireland, and good ol' America, but neither April nor I had any idea where we had eventually decided to bury it. We needed help. Needless to say, the text messages and phone calls made in an attempt to obtain any information regarding the hole in our ceiling and our missing smoke detector were extremely humorous at the least. Most of the text recipients were already in Russia, some saw the original rip from ceiling and exile to balcony tirade (a few of which felt that informing me that it was no longer attached to my ceiling and that gaping hole with cords hanging down did actually exist was somehow new information to me), and one remembered my acceptance of the beeping spawn of Satan back into my life, but no one actually responded with helpful insight. It was to remain a mystery.

In the end, April found the smoke detector a few days later in her stack of jeans. It sat on our counter for three weeks untouched as we basked in our laziness and inability to walk next door to the CVS to get a replacement battery. Finally, almost a month after the fateful beeping began, we were once again living under the protective shield of a fully-juiced smoke detector. The end.




No one can say I've never learned from my experiences or matured in any way ever again...

Disturbing Realizations

I like to think of myself as a fairly well-rounded person. I have great friends, a good family, a solid social life, and a legitimate set of interests, goals, and priorities. Why, then, was I so frightened a month or so ago, when one of my friends identified a surprising truth about my life: I had at least crossed into phase three of the ten-step process of becoming a cat lady. Yes, a cat lady.

Though everyone has heard of such a person, it is a gray area as to what actually constitutes a cat lady. Is there a minimum number of cats one might need to own? Is there a lower bound of social interaction? Must the male sex had to have given up on the woman in question entirely for the title to set in? Ok, so I wasn't anywhere close to having to ask these questions yet, but upon closer examination of my life, I came to the conclusion that this wise, albeit insulting, friend did have a point.

As a child, I grew up with many pets - Horses, dogs, hamsters, goldfish, gerbils, and of course, many cats - and have always loved them. My family still has two cats at home, Bentley(who might be more accurately classified as a dog given his overall size and behavior patterns) and the invincible Prince(survivor of being impaled by a combine earlier this year, but that is not important here), but my regard towards them has never put me anywhere near the cat lady line....And then Guinness entered my life.

Since then, as my friend pointed out, certain events have transpired and behaviors have been undertaken on my part that would prompt almost anyone on the outside looking in to question my cat lady-ness. So now it is up to you, blog readers to decide: how bad is it?

The sad truths are as follows.: (Please feel free to laugh at my expense)

- Guinness has his own bedroom. Yes, I pay rent for a two-bedroom apartment each and every month all by myself for very few legitimate reasons. In his room, he has a futon, a mattress, a jungle gym, 3 scratching posts, 4 cat beds, a tunnel, a stool, 3 food bowls, a Guinness-proof watering system(you would understand if you ever saw him paying in a sink or any sort of puddle-like accumulation of liquid), and a liter box secluded in his own walk-in closet. Guests at my apartment even often refer to the second bathroom situated closest to his room as "Guinness's bathroom". It's bad.

- The contents of my coat closet include the following: a Northface, a Patagonia, a red pea coat, a charcoal pea coat, a black formal long coat, a white trench coat, a windbreaker, and a pet-sized biker jacket with metallic studs. Oh yes. Unfortunately, due to the lack of quality of pleather used, though Guinness almost fills out the awesome little coat, he can't really move in it. the last time he donned it for April's and my amusement, he slowly tipped over off of his perch of badassness and had to be rescued from where he laid, face-down on my futon in his rockstar threads. While impractical, its tough to mess with the concept of a kitten in a leather jacket. It especially looks chic over his jersey that he wears during Detroit games. It kind of clashes with his holiday t-shirt, but that's not important.

- Guinness has Facebook. He doesn't have opposable thumbs, but he has a full profile, and frequently writes on his friends' walls. He was even in a relationship there for a while...with a human. If it's Facebook official, you know it's serious.

- Guinness is the background on my Blackberry. I show it to strangers at bars. OH MY GOD. The cat lady realization is really sinking in now.

- The other night I decided to give Guinness a bath. Because he needs to be beautiful, I chose to suds him up with Victoria's Secret Strawberries and Champagne body wash. After rinsing and toweling him off in his own bath towel, I blow dried him. That's right, folks: I blow dried my cat. So pretty smelling, so puffy.

- I make entirely too many jokes to people about my "bossy roommate" who never wants to hang out, and gets so pissed when I bring over friends at night. I mean, how many times can I fake "check" with Guinness to see if it is ok to have a party? It was never funny. It still isn't. I'm sorry to all those who have witnessed it.

- Guinness has a kitty harness. I take him for walks. Correction: I take him outside in his kitty harness and he sits down.

- I cannot count on one hand how many times I have tried to trick him into drinking his namesake. His refusing to do so has been my greatest regret. I get more joy out of thinking of ways for Guinness to drink Guinness without noticing than I have gotten from half of the parties I have attended in my life.

...I could continue, but I think I have embarrassed myself enough. So there it is, guys. I may not be a social outcast yet, but one thing is certain: I need help or we all know where I will be come my 20 year reunion.

P.S. Guinness, if you are online updating your Facebook profile or watching "Kittens inspired by Kittens" again and you stumble upon this post, this is not your fault. I love you.

An Ode to the Audit Intern

So...this winter I got my first taste of the joys of public accounting. Instead of discussing this in an extended tale of number crunching and frolics through the audit room, I will instead share with the internet community the works of lyrical art that I composed during my professional internship with an accounting firm in Charlotte that will remain unnamed. Before reading, please note that I mean no disrespect to my wonderful firm, the profession, or my lovely coworkers: this is simply a sarcastic display of a new art genre known as Accounting Poetry and a reflection of the lack of exciting jobs available to interns during busy season. Enjoy.


A POEM FOR THE AUDIT INTERN: For April Richmond and Nikki Palazzo


Auditing is so much fun.

I want to sing and dance.

I’d tie-out 10’Ks all day long

If I only had the chance.


I love my red pen.

And my various post-it flags.

I love how blood-shot my eyes get.

And how the skin below them sags.


This job is super wonderful.

I never leave my chair.

My excel workbooks are just so pretty,

I cannot help but stare.


You know what does it for me?

What really makes me smile?

When I look at two numbers for an hour or two

And they just won’t reconcile.


I heart my calculator.

Love access and excel.

I really just love auditing,

If you couldn’t already tell.


This really is the glamorous life.

I think I really made it.

Being an intern is phenomenal!

Except I really hate it.


Sometimes I work 12 hours.

Sometimes I think I’ll cry.

Sometimes I do nothing for days on end

Sometimes I want to die.


It could be worse I guess

At least I’m getting paid

When I do all this for no extra comp

Ill wish my intern status had stayed.


AN AUDIT POEM - PART 2


This one time I sat at my desk.

I sat there all day long.

I did the same thing 11 times.

And each time, I did it wrong.


So then I had to re-do it.

And still it wasn’t right.

So I added to my sample

And worked late into the night.


When I turned it into my senior

She changed a bunch of stuff

So I added 4 more tickmarks

But that wasn’t good enough.


When the manager looked it over

At first he seemed impressed

But he asked I do it ten more times

Was this some evil test?


So now I am surrounded

By leasehold improvement recons

All I want is to hit up the bake sale

And buy those brownies with the pecans.


It really is quite cruel

I can see the baked goods from my chair

But I have way too much work to do

It really isn’t fair.


If given the choice of Recons or death

Right now I would be dead

I really should just work on it now

But I choose poetry instead.



The end. I will be here all week.

Mini Blowpops

Standing in line at Lowe’s Foods the other day, I succumbed to two of the greatest forces present in a modern-day capitalist society: Pretty pictures and stuff for less than a dollar. The predator behind these forces was a display for Mini Blowpops; and I was an easy prey. I didn’t have a chance: Blowpops already are awesome. But these were miniature. BABY BLOWPOPS, and only eighty-eight cents. Done and done.

How could this concept be anything less than magical? I will tell you. The defining characteristic of Blowpops, besides their ability to teach children of hierarchies of both desired flavors and the individuals who choose them (watermelon, strawberry,…grape last; popular, jock,…dweeb last), is its happy surprise center of bubble gum reached after successfully licking through layer upon layer of tangy fruit goodness. It’s what separates the blowpop from its inferior counterparts like the tootsie-pop and the dum-dum, and also adds some support for the otherwise innuendo-teasing name “blowpop.” So, as these are Mini Blowpops that we are discussing here, it would make sense that although they ditched the traditional lollypop form for a bite-sized style, these pygmy versions would also share the essential bubble gum filling. They did not disappoint.

That is to say they did not disappoint anyone counting on chewing the 1/10 scale amount of gum contained within these sugary spheres. They did however, confuse and perturb anyone expecting to be able to get this little speck of goo out of their back molars or into any sort of chewing rhythm. Upon realizing the molecule of gum was a lost cause, I shifted my goal from chewing the nucleus of the mini blowpop to simply getting it out of my teeth. After a ninety-second battle, I succeeded - if you consider swallowing a few milligrams of gum a victory, anyway.

Maybe because of my hangover from the awesomeness of the miniature blowpop concept, or perhaps just because I am stubborn in nature, I was not yet finished with attempting to enjoy these little snacks. There had to be a way to rescue any remaining potential. My first thought was to eat four instead of one – that would equal four times the gum! Fail. Four times a grain of sand is still not much sand: Same concept here. Swallowed again. I was getting angry. The only solution was to consume the rest of the bag. After sifting through a mouthful of grape, sour apple, cherry, watermelon, and strawberry shards and their respective tid-bits of gum I was left with my prize: a small chewable wad about a third of the size of the product of a stick of Juicy Fruit. How disappointing. Not only was I exhausted, both in jaw and mind, but also I was reminded of how non-appetizing blowpop gum really was. It is pure sugar and hardens within seconds. Disappointment flooded over me. In the end I was left with nothing but the following cognitions:

I am 23. I cannot successfully consume or enjoy a Mini Blowpop. How is a member of the target audience, say a ten-year-old who does not have a college degree in economics, supposed to deal with this choking hazard?

How is this even a pop? The stick is gone.

What do Blowpops even do besides entertain your oral fixation for ten to twelve minutes and turn your mouth indigo?

Why even put the gum in the blowpop if it is going to taste like sticky tack mixed with Aspartame? It’s the equivalent of following a rainbow to find a pot of ChexMix with the crunchy biscuits and dark Chex already eaten out of it.

In conclusion: Do not be fooled by the mist of feigned awesomeness that surrounds the Mini Blowpop. It is all smoke and mirrors. Go back to the original, or even try a peach flavored dum-dum – its delicious! And whatever you do, don’t rush towards the center goal: with Blowpops, it’s all about enjoying the ride.

This post is dedicated to April Richmond, the second known victim to succumb to the disappointment that is Mini Blowpops.

Hello Forced Readers

If you are reading this, you already know me. I know this much as fact because as soon as I am done writing this, I am going to send this link to whoever I can think of and dangle our friendship over their head as motivation to read whatever it is I see fit to post on this blog.

I have wanted to write a blog for a long time now in order to share the ridiculousness of both my filterless mind, and my life in general, with the internet world. But since the life of an accounting graduate student/auditor-in-training keeps me so busy doing nothing, I just haven't been able to put my Twilight book down long enough to put finger to keyboard.

So what changed? Tim Gearty and Peter Olinto entered my life. Who are these exceptional persons, you ask? They are simultaneously the center of my universe and the bane of my existence. As the narrators of the Becker CPA exam preparation class lectures, these two gentlemen and the plethora of accounting terms and concepts they happily reintroduced into my aching brain every day have taken over my world. I think I hear most of my thoughts in their New England timbres these days than I do in my own voice. I am finally busy doing something meaningful: attempting to become a Certified Public Accountant. This is exactly why I am breaking ground my blog now, five days before taking the first part of the dreaded CPA exam: I have always lived for procrastination and the thrill of doing as little actual work as necessary until the very last minute, and the thought of writing a blog instead of making flashcards numbers 155-180 just did it for me.

So here it is: a compilation of stories, conversations, reflections, and randomness that really didn't need to be posted on the internet. I hope you all enjoy my life as much as I do.

On a related note: I recently facebook friended Tim Gearty, my Becker friend, and he accepted. Great success!


Over and out.



The rulers of my life. Compliments of Facebook and my budding friendship with Tim Gearty.